


Let's Just Laugh Again

by Lucterna



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut, plus size reader, warning for language regarding self image and weight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: It starts with a tweet.@twitterhandle: Sunshine, chocolate milkshake, perfect day! Hope @Harry_Styles is having a good one too!You never thought he'd notice, so you're more than surprised when you get a reply, and it only spirals out from there.





	Let's Just Laugh Again

**Author's Note:**

> Just a brief key, that regular italics are usually messages from "you" and italics + bold belong to Harry.

It starts with a tweet.

_@twitterhandle: Sunshine, chocolate milkshake, perfect day! Hope @Harry_Styles is having a good one too!_

 

You don’t really use the social media site all that often, maybe once every few days or so, and usually it’s just to leave a little tidbit like that - not even during times when you suspect that the pop star in question is actively lurking the site. You don’t really expect a reply, and it might seem silly but it makes you happy. You hope that, if he ever sees them, maybe it makes Harry happy too.

And it really is a lovely day out, the temperature mild, the sunshine just enough to speckle your skin through the trees in your parents’ backyard. You’re housesitting for them this week, while they take a vacation somewhere much warmer and sunnier, to look after your mother’s garden and the ancient tabby-cat they’ve had since you were little. Said cat is sunning herself right beside you, purring quietly while you sip at your milkshake and poke at your phone. The quiet is welcome and soothing, a little vacation for you as well from the hustle and bustle at the retail outlet where you work. If you’d taken the time off sooner, you might have joined your parents but as is, you’re glad for the time alone.

Even if your father had stopped at the door, with a gentle teasing that you not throw any huge parties while they were gone.

You hadn’t heard that one in a while and had laughed it off, telling him you’d be a busy little bee getting the place spic and span before they could find out. But the truth is… you don’t really have enough friends to throw a huge house party behind your parents backs. You never have. Even now, you can count your only and closest friends on one hand and they’re the same group you’ve been with since high school, the only people who’d never ever cared that you were badly overweight, who adored the laughing, compassionate and charming girl underneath. All your best memories included the three of them, and really what more do you need?

So, no, there would be no huge house parties, no sneaking over a boyfriend. Just you and the cat and maybe your friends a night or two to keep you company.

You’re just about to head inside to throw out your empty milkshake cup when your phone jingles with a Twitter notification. At first, you see it’s tweet from Harry and you can’t help smiling, but then you realize it’s not just a tweet: it’s a reply, to you.

_@Harry_Styles: @twitterhandle Might be better if you’re sharing that milkshake xx_

You nearly drop your phone and a tiny little squeal that startles the cat off the bench escapes you. Of course you’re quick to type a reply, fingers flying over your phone’s onscreen keyboard, though they’re shaking ever so slightly.

_@twitterhandle: @Harry_Styles Only if you ask nicely! ;)_

Despite your icy fingers, you don’t expect anything else, especially since you couldn’t resist teasing a little. So you shove your phone in your pocket and get up to go inside before you get your hopes up too high. Even if the universe has obviously toppled upside down to allow Harry to reply to you once, there’s no way it’ll happen again. It doesn’t matter how hard your heart’s beating against your poor ribs.

Inside, the house is darker and considerably cooler than the outside, which is a blessing, as it helps you calm your anxious excitement. You take a few deep breaths of the floral scented air freshener your mother is so fond of and soon you feel a little less like running around the house screaming.

That’s when you get two rapid fire notifications in a row.

_@Harry_Styles followed you!_

_@Harry_Styles: @twitterhandle Please? :) xx_

At this point, you’d wandered into the kitchen, with the intent to wash out your cup and the blender you’d used to make that milkshake. Instead, you find yourself gripping the counter and almost vibrating with excitement; you press your phone and your hand to your mouth and let out another little muffled squeal. Honestly, you must be dreaming; any moment now you’re going to wake up in your parents’ guest bedroom to find that the entire morning has been nothing but a rather lucid fever dream.

_@twitterhandle: @Harry_Styles Haha, since you asked so nicely I’ll even make you your own :)_

And a moment later:

_@Harry_Styles: @twitterhandle Yay. I like milkshakes. Thank you :)_

You send him a quick “you’re welcome” tweet back in return, positively reeling, feeling at once elated about the response and maybe a little lame at how intensely you’ve reacted. At least you feel like your dignity is safe, no one around to witness your girly sounds of joy but the decrepit kitty. From there it’s rather quiet anyway, and you’re okay with that - you never really aspired to meet Harry, or the rest of the band for that matter. Given your struggle with weight all your life, meeting new people is quite the ordeal, and attempting to meet someone like them… well, you’re sure you’d faint dead away. Not to mention that for all you love them, for all you’ve seen that they’re so kind and accepting of their fans, well, you’re still sometimes afraid you’ll be that one exception. And if you didn’t die of excitement, you’d most certainly pass from humiliation.

So, it’s better this way. You’ve had an entire conversation with Harry Styles and maybe one day you’ll graduate from One Direction fan to something new, but you’ll have been fulfilled in this one measure forever.

You shove your phone in your pocket finally and set about your cleaning.

In days, the conversation is not forgotten, but it is a pleasant little buzz in the back of your head, and Harry’s twitter name still appears in your followers list. Sometimes you check it just to smile. And you still tweet him silly little things about having a good day or enjoying himself at whatever event you’ve gotten wind is going on. It’s absolutely normal all over again.

Then the DMs begin. The first time it’s to tell you what an excellent song you’d suggested for him in a tweet one day, linking to a video on Youtube for him to watch if he had the time. Needless to say, you’re on happy pins and needles for days, and they just keep coming, until you realize one night, after work, you’ve been lying in bed chatting via DM with Harry for over an hour. And it’s the second time in a week. You still get the excited butterflies fumbling around in your belly, but it’s not the same as that mind numbing shock of excitement you’d experienced the first time he tweeted you.

_I’m pretty sure I’ve talked to you more than my friends all week, haha_

**_Oh no, am I keeping you from them? Sorry :(_ **

_Not at all! I’m just surprised. I like talking to you!_

**_I like talking to you too xx_ **

_I should probably go to bed though :( Work in the morning._

**_Same. Night, love. xx_ **

_Goodnight, Harry :)_

Not every night ends this way, but so many of them do that you can’t help thinking of him as an actual friend, like the others you’ve tentatively made online over the years. Sometimes you think the internet is the best thing that could have happened to someone like you. Cut out awkward first meetings where the likability factor of a person is immediately determined by the way they look - if it’s not something serious like weight, it’s something stupid like clothes or accessories. The internet cuts that completely out, provides a place of comfort and safety where you can be you without that idiotic type of judgement. And the friends you’ve made there didn’t freak out once they did find out what you looked like, so, bonus.

Now, it’s allowed you to meet and converse with someone you didn’t think would notice you in a million years, just another icon in a sea of messages screaming for follows and RTs. You feel giddy and strange and amazing.

Sometimes Harry sends you pictures. Not usually selfies, but photos of his surroundings, like “Never been here before, skyline is amazing” and the sunset over a city district. He sends you a picture from the middle of nowhere, all green swaying grass and empty blue sky and his fingertips from holding the camera weird. Every once in a while though, it’ll be his face, sunglasses pushed up into his chocolate curls and his lips split in this big dumb grin and all you’ll see underneath it is “Hiiii.” You send him pictures in return sometimes: your mother’s garden when you housesit on another weekend, the mess your blender makes after a really good round of milkshakes and the orchid plant you keep by the window over the sink. He oohs and aahs appropriately through the text every time.

**_I’ve got a weird question…_ **

You get the ding of the notification while you’re on break at work, headphones in to drown out the intercom and the sound of people passing the break room door on the way into the bathrooms. Half a smile quirks your mouth.

_Most of your questions are weird. Shoot._

_**That’s not nice :( I was wondering if you’d take a picture for me.** _

_Sure! What do you want to see?_

Ten empty minutes pass while you wait on his answer and finish up your sandwich from the deli across the street. You’re starting to wonder if he’ll answer as you get up to throw out your things and trek back to the timeclock.

He answers just before you can punch in the numbers.

**_A picture of you._ **

You’re immediately glad that you were able to finish lunch before he replied, because you surely would have choked on your food. As it is, your stomach does this painful lurching that it never has while you’ve been talking to Harry before. You’ve never been so glad to punch in for work in your entire life, jamming your cellphone into your locker in the furthest corner like that will actually help anything, before you run out to throw yourself so far up customer service’s ass that your shaky, plastic smile gets about a hundred weird looks before you’re relinquished to go home. There aren’t any new notifications when you retrieve your phone and for that you’re grateful; you can pretend a little longer that Harry Styles hadn’t asked to see what you looked like. Why’s it important anyway? You’re just another fan, a minnow in a swarming, frothing sea of fish. So you flap your gums in little blue and white DMs several times a week… it’s not like Harry’s spilling his life’s secrets to you. You don’t think anyway. Maybe you know a little more than the average Joe Blow, but… it’s nothing.

… Right?

You’re running on autopilot while these and similar thoughts swirl around in your head, changing into your pajamas, letting your hair out of the painful ‘do you’d put it in for work and brushing your teeth. Hours have passed since Harry’s last DM and you wonder if maybe you can pretend you didn’t get it, strike up a completely new conversation with him as if nothing happened. Or maybe, you think as you crawl in between your bedcovers, you can just go to sleep and answer him in the morning. Play it off like you’ve terrible bedhead that’d scare the glittery boots right off of him.

The thought brings the first real smile to your face since you punched back in for work, and you think that’s the best idea, even make it so far as your head hitting the cool top of the pillow. A relaxed sigh slips out of your mouth, your body enjoying the relief of not having to hold itself up while anxiety tightens up every nerve ending in your body.

Your phone dings.

For a few moments, you contemplate ignoring it. Just get some sleep, you tell yourself, figure this out in the morning when you’ve got a day off.

But you can’t really leave it like that, can you? You roll over and grope for your phone, pulling it off the charger to look at the notification.

Inside your DMs, you find two messages from Harry.

_**Sorry, told you it was a weird question. It’s okay if you’d rather not.** _

_**I hope work was good. I’m going to sleep, goodnight xx** _

Temporarily, you curl your pillow up over your head to smother your face, groaning softly into it. Now he thinks he’s offended you. And you absolutely cannot let him go to sleep thinking that, no matter how weird you feel, he’s always been nothing but lovely.

_Hey, no, it’s cool, no apologies :) I might send you one._

_Just a long day at work is all. Night, Harry :)_

And it might have ended there for the evening, but seeing you’re awake and messaging him, Harry has to send something back. You end up falling asleep on each other after talking for at least a couple of hours, you curled around your phone in the bed, unaware that who knows how many miles away that Harry’s done the same.

He doesn’t ask again for a long time, which is perfectly fine with you. By now, your conversations have graduated to an app that lets you text each other for free, and the messages are longer, more detailed accounts of your day, Harry’s long and rambling thoughts about life and music and sometimes love, which he calls “elusive” more than once. You’re glad he can’t hear you laugh, not because it’s really funny, but because it’s actually kind of sad. Over the months the two of you have been talking, he’s been so many places, in and out of your time zone; surely he could have met someone. You know love isn’t the end all be all of someone’s life, but Harry’s admitted once when he was strangely very drunk and texting you from a hotel, that it was incredibly important to him.

Of course, you’d felt the same and told him so, but the conversation had abruptly ended on a frowny emoticon and an impromptu nap that he’d apologized for late into the next day.

You didn’t think you should bring it up again, not unless he did.

That strange and fluttering feeling in your stomach only seems to grow every time the two of you talk now, never far from your phone, nearly every day unless he tells you he’ll be too busy to reach. Honestly, you keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the messages to stop completely, for Harry to realize he’s just ranting at a faceless girl that thinks she might legitimately be falling in love with him, not just watching and pining from a million miles away anymore. Sometimes the butterflies are knots, hot and tight and waiting for the disappointment, until your phone jingles with the familiar sounds of his messages and they unravel at a breakneck pace.

He sends you more and more pictures of himself, making stupid faces or just smiling and telling you that he hopes you’re doing the same. Once or twice he takes dumb selfies in a bathroom mirror and asks your opinion of his clothes or if he should take the plunge and cut his hair again (you vehemently tell him NOT to cut his hair, unless he really really wants to, because it is his hair and it’s only your opinion). So he sends you a picture three days in a row, hair curled around his own fingertips, captioned, “Still long ;)”.

Among all these pictures, he asks twice if you’ll send him one back, once when you tell him you bought this new band shirt - one you both really like - and once when you admit to trimming your hair. You can’t remember what excuses you made now, but Harry takes them in stride, usually with a cute frowny emoji and then moving right on as if it was never a thing. You’re thankful for that.

By the time the two of you have been talking six months, it feels like there was never a time in your life that you didn’t know Harry Styles. Never a time where you didn’t wake up to a silly “Top o’ the mornin’!” (which you usually answer with “Isn’t Niall the Irish one?”) or go to bed with a couple of x’s after your name. Of course, sometimes these greetings come in the middle of the night or day, but you don’t mind.

One of the things you hadn’t minded sharing with Harry though, was your hometown. Well, honestly, by this point you’d shared quite a bit with him, just never your face. While your online friends had never had an issue, you just couldn’t bear it if Harry did - you’d be perfectly content if he never saw what you looked like ever. But lost in the sea of numbers that make up your city, you doubt that the information would be pertinent at all. So when you wake up to “I’m stalking your state!” you don’t think anything of laughing and telling him to come visit you, come to this outdoor concert you’re going to for a local band that you really enjoy.

_**Is that the one you told me about before? Wearing anything special?** _

You find yourself flushing, forever flattered that he remembers anything you tell him; in particular, this is about your idea that you’ve got to wear something rather nice to concerts and other huge events. But today, you take a glance down at yourself and feel… well, comfortable. You’ve already showered and taken care of your hair, spritzed on a little of your favorite perfume - your mother buys you a bottle of it every year for your birthday - and since you’re going to be outside with no seats, you’d already known you would have to throw on your ratty but most comfortable pair of sneakers.

_Not today :P Comfy stuff._

You straighten out one side of the hoodie you’re wearing, magenta with black and gray flowers printed on it, accented by cute little rhinestones here and there. There’s a white t-shirt underneath it, but when you snap the very first photo you’ll ever send to Harry of something on your person, you don’t get it or your fingers in the shot. You caption it with “just jeans under that” because you’re already anxious about sending him that much, which you know is silly, but it’s just true.

**_Oh, that looks nice xx If I come I’ll look out for you ;)_ **

_Haha, ok. Later, Harry :)_

**_Bye, love x_ **

You take your old Ford into the city for the concert, into the business district where the buildings are tall and reflective but there’s this one spot hollowed out into a span of trees with a glittering lake to one side that’s usually covered in ducks and geese, especially during their migration. It’s almost as pretty as your mother’s flower garden, or the expanse of field around your uncle’s farmhouse when you used to go stay with him and ride horses. You’re attending the concert alone, but that’s okay - none of your friends like the band as much as you do and sometimes you’ve got to do things on your own. Maybe you’ll get a little anxious here, but when the music gets started, none of that will matter. You’re already looking forward to the post concert jitters, the ringing in your ears and the scratchiness at the back of your throat.

It’s a gorgeous day for an outside concert anyway, just enough sunshine to keep the place bright, the breeze soothing along sunkissed skin. The grass is freshly trimmed, scenting the air, and there are people already gathering though you’d shown up rather early. You make a pit stop at the concession area for an overpriced bottle of water, before milling your way into the forming crowd.

The air cools, the band takes the stage and soon the afternoon is filled with sweet guitar riffs and artistic plunks on the keyboard, backed by a stellar bassist and drummer. They play for an hour, before announcing an intermission, giving you enough time to head back for another bottle of water. You toss the empty one in a nearby trash can and fit yourself up against the counter when the line gives way.

“Just another bottle of water please,” you tell the young woman behind the counter, who gives you a surprisingly kind smile and a, “That’ll be four-fifty.”

You’re digging into your wallet when you hear an odd, familiar voice at your side. “I’ve got it; make that two, please?”

When it finally registers, you can’t even pick your head up, fingers shaking inside the zip portion of your wallet. No fucking way. You’d honestly be convinced you were hallucinating if not for the girl interacting with him, with a tiny giggle and an “alright” as she turns back to get another bottle. There’s a roaring in your ears, an urge to bolt that has your knees rattling, and you almost don’t hear him at all when he calls your name, voice lilting up in question.

You can’t even protest that he’s literally buying your drink, fingers fumbling to close your wallet back up, eyes dragging the length of his lean body, clothed in the usual black jeans but an airy t-shirt you’ve never seen before. Like so of the selfies he’s sent you, his sunglasses are pushed back into his hair like a makeshift headband and he’s grinning a mile wide.

“H-Harry?” you choke out, certain that your larynx has simply dissolved into the rest of your throat. Your mouth is dry and your hands ice as he takes the bottles of water and eagerly presses yours into your trembling grasp.

At the moment, he doesn’t seem to notice that your heart feels like it’s literally beating out of your chest, your whole body giving into the tremors that had started in your hands. Honestly, you feel a little woozy, not at all sure if this is happiness or pure terror, as he replies with, “That’s me! I was a little worried it wouldn’t be you, but that’s the same shirt…” He reaches out, long fingers grazing the rhinestones that had shown up in the photo you snapped for him earlier.

Like he’s just burned you, you flinch away and he finally seems to realize something is terribly off. Your name leaves his lips in confusion, and for a split second you’re actually able to enjoy the way it tips off his tongue in that sweet accent, before the rush is pounding in your ears again. “What’s wrong? Is… I mean, I probably should have said something but I… I wanted it to be a surprise. Are you- are you alright?”

You suck in a breath as shaky as the rest of you, head moving side to side before you can really give it thought, “What are you- why are you here, Harry? You’re not supposed to be here.” Your voice is something small and rasping.

He starts to answer you, but the girl behind the counter breaks in. You’re vaguely aware of being shooed from the concession stand so other people can move up in line, but the world has narrowed to the ocean lapping at your brain and Harry’s hand, gentle and warm and terrifying on your shoulder as he turns you to nudge you away. Your feet move, but it barely registers, at least not until the two of you are still again, standing a safe distance away from the other people and the stand.

You watch his mouth move as he speaks, “I told you, I wanted it to be a surprise…” He looks uncertain, frowning, like he absolutely cannot understand why you’ve become little more than a frightened bird trapped in its cage with a hungry cat. This is very, very obviously not the reaction he expected. “I didn’t think-”

Your voice bursts out of you before you can stop it, “That’s just it! You didn’t think! I- I didn’t want you to- to ever come see me!”

Harry looks absolutely stricken, stiffening up, almost like he wants to be angry, but in the end he just deflates. By now though, you’ve turned your back on that face, managed to remember how to work your feet again and the water bottle hits the ground as you turn and run for the parking lot. You don’t even apologize to people as you shove through them and it’s really a miracle you don’t actually knock anyone to the ground as you bulldoze through. Behind you, there’s shouting, angry yelling, but above it all is Harry’s voice yelling for you to stop, to wait, come back.

You literally hit the side of your car with a dull thud and you can’t even seem to open up the door before you’re crying into your hands. Despite the fact that you’re very obviously overwhelmed, you tell yourself what a stupid, pathetic thing you are. Harry Fucking Styles popping up out of nowhere to see only you and you scream at him and run off and how many other girls would actually piss their pants with joy to meet him for just a second in time, just one little photograph. But all at once you’re angry with him too, for startling you, for not respecting the one shred of distance that kept you comfortable; how many times did you have to dodge sending him a picture before he got the idea you didn’t want to? You’d never once asked if he’d be nearby, if the two of you could hang out.

You’re crumpled against your car, outright sobbing, when Harry finally catches up to you.

He touches you, fleeting brushes of his fingertips on your back and shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll break under even that much pressure, his voice soft, but so uncertain. “Please, I’m so sorry,” he tells you, “I thought… I thought it’d make you happy, not… well, just… because we’ve been talking so much and I’ve been desperate to meet you, I just… I wanted-” He breaks off, and you can feel his hands disappear.

You’re still shuddering, not quite sure at all what to make of his wobbling speech when you manage to turn around. Of course, you feel about a hundred times worse - now you’re not just fat in his presence, you’re fat and blubbering and what little makeup you’d used to come out today is probably a hideous mess.

He’s got his arms folded across his chest, not quite defensive, more like he’s holding himself up or together, face a tight frown of unhappiness and confusion. “I… I should have asked what you wanted,” he murmurs.

Technically, you agree with that, and you want to tell him as much, but what comes out of your mouth is, “Why would you be desperate to see me?” It makes about as much sense as a housecat willingly bathing in the sink.

Harry doesn’t seem to have expected that either, but he answers, “I’ve been talking to you for months, you’re…” He licks his lips, expression going suddenly shy as he looks off away from you. “I’ve told you a thing or two I haven’t even told the guys.”

You rub at your face with both hands, pressed into the side of your car like any moment you’ll actually enter it via osmosis, and you more than understand the gravity of that statement. Your heart just beats harder against your ribs. After a moment, you tell him quietly, voice hoarse from crying, “You… you still should have asked.”

He nods, eyes meeting yours. There’s still an interesting dash of crimson on his cheeks, but he doesn’t look shy or embarrassed anymore. “I really am sorry that I didn’t… But I also really don’t understand why you wouldn’t want…” He pauses a moment, head tilting with thought. Scratching into his hair, he says, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t want me to see you.”

Well, it was probably silly to think he wouldn’t remember exactly what you’d said, or that he wouldn’t ask about it, but your stomach still does about a thousand woozy flipflops at the thought. You had talked to Harry about every other insecurity you had, your troubles at work, coping with a friend getting married, and the one stupid spat you had with your mom when she found out you broke one of her good dishes while you were house sitting. But not once had you ever mentioned your weight, though twice you’d had good reason to be upset with a situation concerning it. Those times, he’d gotten the excuse that you were just tired and feeling cranky for no reason, because you just couldn’t bear him thinking of it. Even now, you’re just honestly surprised he’d had no trouble touching you, running after you, hasn’t curled up his lip once or made some comment about how he didn’t think fat girls could run that fast. Not that Harry was the kind to make condescending remarks, but his eyes are on you as intensely as person you’ve ever seen him looking at. You feel more than vulnerable.

You don’t realize tears have started to leak from the corners of your eyes again until Harry’s fingertips catch them on your cheek, and he looks so positively pained that it almost hurts you to see.

“Won’t you tell me?” he whispers, the sound almost carried away on the music and the wind.

With those viridian eyes looking into yours, the unexpected touch of his fingertips on your neck before he’s really drawn his hand away, all you can do is tell him, “I didn’t want you to see what I looked like.”

“Why?”

You swallow, pressing yourself harder against the side of the vehicle. “Because I… I have a lot of problems with the way I look, and I didn’t want you to see those problems.” You look down now, unable to hold his gaze for too long. “I didn’t want you to just start thinking of me as those problems.”

Harry looks skeptical and you’re not quite sure if that’s because he doubts what you say, or the problems themselves. You’re only looking up at him through your lashes now, rather afraid of his actual reaction, but you can see his gaze working it’s way over you, in no way sexual, just curious, mapping out what he only had to imagine before.

Several silent moments pass and when you’ve finally worked up the courage to look up at him again, he says, “I guess… I think I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t- I don’t think I really see problems so much as I see the girl I’ve been pouring my heart out to for half a year.”

Another hard swallow bobs its way down your throat and you admit, uncertainly, “I didn’t want you to stop if you saw me.”

He shuffles a step or two closer and your chest and throat constrict at the same time; you’re still scared and unsure, especially since he seems to know what your problem is without you spelling out F-A-T for him. “I’m sad you thought I’d do that,” he tells you, and he scrapes forward another step or so, gently reaching out to put his hand on the side of the car beside you, close enough you could turn your head and kiss his arm and you don’t know why you think kiss, but it’s a very sudden thought that you just can’t get out. “But all I’ve been able to think about is you, lately, all I’ve wanted for the past month is to tell you…” He pauses and for the first time you can see actual nervousness on his face as his eyes meet yours again.

Your own heart is fluttering, not sure what’s happening. If you take too deep a breath your tummy will press into his and your head’s gone for a second imagining him closing up that distance, slipping his arms around you.

He doesn’t do that, but he does stay close, his eyes still on yours. “All I’ve wanted to tell you is how badly I want to see the face of the young woman I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with.”

The breath goes out of you like you’ve taken a hit to the gut. “What? No… what?” You’re sure he’s crazy or that maybe you actually passed out somewhere from the concert green to the car and you’ve just been dreaming all this up on your way to the hospital. “Harry, that-”

He lays his finger on your lips, gaze holding yours very seriously, “That is one hundred percent the truth. I could not have cared less what you looked like, only that I wanted to know. And, just for the record, I like what I’ve seen.”

Tears start to burn behind your eyes again and you open your mouth, trying to ignore the way your lips scrape against Harry’s finger, but he shushes you again, gently.

“It’s not all that big a deal, I didn’t fall in love with your face or your body, I fell in love with the most important part of you, what really makes you a person, what you shared with me over and over. And I’m rambling on like a moron trying to explain it right, but I don’t think I am,” he lets out a little bit of a laugh, but when the tears slip down your cheeks this time, he cups your face in both of his hands and rubs them away. “Please, don’t cry…”

“I-I don’t know what e-else to do,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut, everything inside you a mess of elation and hope and disbelief.

His lips on your forehead startle your eyes open, and he leans back with a look that searches your face for answers you don’t even know if you have. “Just tell me if you think I’m crazy and you want me to bugger off.”

A watery laugh bubbles up out of your throat, “I’ve always thought you were crazy, Harry Styles.”

He smiles and it’s a little like the sun’s shifted in the sky just to shine down on the both of you. “Fair enough. And…?”

“I-I don’t really want you to bugger off.”

He lets out an actual sigh of relief, “Oh, good. But I’ll warn you, now you’ve said so, I won’t be buggering off anytime in the foreseeable future.” He doesn’t wait for a response, lifts his hands to pet them back through your hair and then run his thumbs up underneath your wet eyes. You kind of want to tell him that he’s a liar, because he’s one-fifth of an internationally famous boyband and even if you’d ever thought you were enough to keep him tied to the ground, he’d float off before you could even get the stake in.

But you don’t say these things and Harry just keeps looking at you, eyes roving your face and hair and neck and lower until you’re feeling hot and embarrassed while his hands touch your shoulders and then slip down your upper arms. And they cover the entire space there, huge and warm, thumb curled around the front and his fingertips brushing the back, and you think you’re going to cry again, can feel your lips trembling as Harry’s gaze holds yours until he asks, rather awkwardly, “I’m making you miss your concert.”

Unbidden, laughter spills from your lips. You finally tear your gaze from his to look off into the distance, where you can still hear the music and see the crowd. “It’s… it’s fine,” you tell him, shaking your head, relishing very secretly in the fact he’s still touching, still standing scant inches in front of you.

He bites his lip, unconsciously squeezing your arms where he’s holding them. “In that case, um, I took a taxi here…”

You find yourself giggling again, louder, longer, like you’re finally channeling the real feelings you thought you should have about meeting him. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to get me back to your hotel now?” you tease gently.

Harry tries to look offended, but his lips tremble with the urge to smile too much and he ends up chuckling. “Guilty, I think. Only if you want to though… I just want to spend as much time with you as I can. I’ve only got a few days…”

Something twists up in your stomach now, maybe it’s anxiety or longing or the terrible thought he’d drift off before you could properly grasp what’s happening. And what is happening, really? You open your mouth like you might ask him, but reconsider. “We better get going then.”

You’re no good at filling the silence in car rides, so you spend that quietly; Harry doesn’t seem to mind, eyes flitting between you and the road, taking in the route you chose to drive him to his hotel. At the entrance, you plan just to drop him off - you need time to process what’s happened, what he’s said to you, how you feel and what to do - but he looks so forlorn when you attempt to tell him a shy goodbye, that you let him invite you up.

Dinner is room service and Harry orders a movie on the telly; the two of you sit on a plush sofa in the most lavish hotel room you’ve ever seen while you eat and watch and he settles close to you. Miraculously, he doesn’t watch you eat, too busy talking, and you end up not eating much anyway, distracted by his deep drawl as he tells you about the last concert One Direction put on and how loud and fun it was and, “I kept thinking that I wish you’d been there,” and you flush and try to wave him off and grumble he didn’t even know what you looked like, and he opens his mouth but you shake your head really quickly.

“I don’t… I don’t want to know what you imagined,” you tell him quietly, poking at the food left on your plate.

His head cocks to the side, and he studies you; you can almost feel his eyes drifting along the curve of your jaw and lower before they attempt to catch your gaze. You pointedly don’t meet it, and Harry lets it drop without a word.

You spend the next evening at his hotel room as well, because no matter how mixed up you’re feeling, you want to be close to him, and he sends you pictures at work all day long from going sightseeing around the city while you’re busy. You end up laughing at them on break and when you settle into your car at the end of the day. And then he asks you to have dinner with him again and that he’s got you a present which turns out to be a stuffed giraffe that he found in a gift shop and it reminded him of you. You don’t ask how that works, but you laugh and snuggle it to you as he ushers you into his room.

When he sees you out to the valet later, he asks, somehow managing to peek up at you through his lashes, eyes so green and imploring, “Could I kiss you goodnight?”

It’s like all the wind’s gone out of you and taken your nerves with it, your lips trembling as the word, “Yes,” barely makes it out into the warm night air.

His eyes light up like Christmas and you’ve barely time to register it before he’s gathering you up in his arms, taking a moment to just really hug you to him first. He’s solid and smells like vanilla and spice, warm all over save his chilly fingers pressing into the soft skin of your shoulder blades. You’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to use your limbs and your mouth hangs open a little until something gives a little jolt in your brain and you curl your own arms around his waist, clinging without even realizing it. Harry relaxes in a way that seems to have him molding into you, his abdomen hard against your plush tummy, and it’s so strange. No one’s hugged you like this before, like they wanted to melt right into you, like he’ll never unravel his grasp. Harry presses his nose into your hair and breathes deeply and you’re irrationally grateful you’d gone home to shower first, hoping he likes the tropical scent of your shampoo. But then his lips touch your forehead like they had the day before and the tip of your nose and when he finally kisses your lips, it’s just a sweet and slow press of his mouth to yours, melding together, waiting for your reaction, but obviously savoring the instant.

You’ve never once been kissed like this before. Sweet pecks on the lips from your parents and touches to the cheek from friends as they slung an arm around you and lead you off for adventure, but never ever like this, from someone who thinks of you as so much more, who somehow loves you, even now that he’s seen you’re on an entirely different level from him. One you would have sworn only moments ago was feet below the surface he dwelled on.

He pulls away to look down at you, his hands gliding up your shoulders to cup the sides of your neck.

Your face is on fire, and you’re sure the crimson blotches on your cheeks have flooded all the way down your neck and into the collar of your shirt. Are you trembling? Maybe.

“Can you do that again?” you breathe.

“Gladly.”

On break the next day, you actually call Harry, your heart stuttering in your chest and your tummy tumbling around with nerves and excitement. While you’re chatting, he asks, “If I checked out of my hotel early, um… well, could I stay my last couple nights with you?”

You’d just told him you’ll be off the next two days, and though neither of you have really broached the topic of being in love and his confession, you’d thought this would give you ample time to do it, before he’s jetting off and you never see him again. “I, uh… that… it’d be okay.”

“Are you sure? I feel like… I’ve made you uncomfortable a lot and I can just stay here if you’re not, like, completely sure.” If phones still had cords, you can imagine he’d be twirling his finger into the one on his.

“No, it… Well, I guess-” You lick your lips, looking around at all the retail propaganda in the break room and then sighing very softly. “We’ll talk about it, but if you do check out early, you can stay with me. I’d like that.”

A few hours later, after loading his bags up into the trunk of your car, Harry Styles sits across from you in the kitchen, eating your take on a recipe of your mom’s and drinking warm and slightly sweetened green tea and laughing at some dumb joke you made. He kisses you on the corner of the mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world and tells you to leave the dishes in the sink. The two of you play an old board game on your coffee table and Harry’s huge bare feet tickle your legs through your jeans until you’re giggling and kicking at him.

When you’ve crawled onto the couch together and you’re reminding yourself to breathe, somewhere between so very nervous about all your squishiest spots touching him and elated that he’s still so close, Harry asks, “Have I made you really uncomfortable?”

You’d forgotten it was something you’d talk about and you can’t help the way it makes you tense all over again, despite Harry’s arm curled around your shoulders, fingertips rubbing absently back and forth on your arm. “I already told you why I didn’t…. why I didn’t want you to see what I looked like, so, it was just… just that first time. Th-there’s a lot of things I’m just not used to and I think- I’m afraid I’m dreaming, because guys like you-”

His finger touches your lips, stalling the words. “I would have hoped I’d given you a different impression than that,” he says, disappointment in his tone, but it seems more for himself than you.

“No offense, Harry, but considering the women I’ve seen you linked to,” you tip your head back, mouth tingling from his touch, but you can’t keep silent. “I’m flattered and amazed that you feel so differently, but I couldn’t help thinking I’m not a girl who’d measure up.” You swallow hard, breathing out with a deprecating laugh, “Or down, as the case may be.”

He makes a pained sound. “There’s nothing to compare yourself too, sweetheart, I mean it. Like, I know… I can get, logically, like why you feel that way, but all I want to tell you is… it’s just not like that. I can’t say how things would be differently, I guess. But I meant what I said about falling in love with you, and for me, that’s all that’s important. I love every bit of you, and I’m sorry, really, that I didn’t ask how you felt first, I-I wish I could have done it differently, but I wouldn’t take it back.”

You play with your fingers while he talks, feeling his grip on you tighten like you’ll change your mind, his words slow and careful, obviously hesitant that he’ll say the wrong thing and drive you away. It’s so strange to think he’d worry about that, your stomach bubbling with the weirdest of feelings and anxiety. Fuck, you really do love him; of that, you’re sure. It’s already so different from the way it was when you were just innocently tweeting at him to have a good day, even different from those first few DMs. After a few silent moments, Harry’s words hanging in the air for your judgement, you finally, slowly nod your head.

“Okay…” you murmur, before chancing a look up at him, feeling shy and exposed and vulnerable in the worst of ways. You think you could face any bully you put up with in school, but underneath Harry’s gaze you are raw. “W-what… what’s happening now then? What are we doing? I-I’ve never e-even been kissed until yesterday, Harry and I don’t-” You’re not aware you’re shaking or even tearing up, until he works his way around to hug you tightly to him.

Harry gently shushes you, and you wrap your fists into the open sides of his button up, pressing your face into his collar and breathing in, shuddering out the urge to cry until it’s passed.

While your face is still hidden in his neck, Harry says, “I want to be… like, it sounds kind of lame, almost, when I say it, but I want to be your boyfriend.”

“How is that lame?” you laugh, a bit pathetically, but you don’t relinquish your hold on his shirt.

“I feel like there should be a stronger word without attempting to spring marriage on someone,” he grumbles and you feel his lips in your hair, hands running down your back.

“Don’t say ‘marriage’ again, I think I just had a heart attack.”

He laughs and after kissing you again, he gently holds you out and away from him, eyes meeting yours. You know your lids are red rimmed from the notion to cry, but Harry cares only so far as that he can kiss you properly now.

For a long while there are no words between you, just kisses that start on your cheeks and end with the taste of him in your mouth. You feel shaky and weak and so not up to the task but if you’re a bad kisser, Harry’s a professional, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He touches you so very gently, mapping out the most innocent of places, your arms and shoulders, your back, to the ticklish chub on your sides, where he pokes harder to make you giggle into his mouth and fall in against his chest until you realize you’re laying across him with his head on the arm of your sofa.

You pull away, face scarlet, “S-sorry, I-”

“Where are you going?” he whines, reaching for you as you try sit up. “I want to kiss you some more. Pleeease?”

It’s not like you don’t know what the feeling burning very suddenly low in your belly is, but it’s scary on the verge of what’s happening. You scoot away too quickly, shaking your head, still blushing so hard you might be lightheaded. “It’s not- that I don’t, but- I-I think I should really go to bed, to sleep, now, because I’m tired and… yes.”

You’re already on your feet, stumbling backward as Harry stands, looking like a lost puppy, only he’s a much different vision when your eyes hit his pouting, kiss swollen lips and sweep back through that tousled hair. With sudden clarity, you remember it curled just moments ago around your fingers and a shiver ripples through you.

In the end, Harry’s got a bed made on your sofa, with sheets and a couple pillows and he grumps, but you let him kiss you goodnight one more time, before you escape to your bedroom. An irrational part of you almost locks the door, but you stop yourself, and leave it cracked.

But an hour later finds your feet underneath you again, because you can’t sleep, though the heat in your middle has very fortunately died down. Only, you don’t make it to the living room. Harry’s there in the hallway, your sheet wrapped around his shoulders. His bare torso and the dark tattoos there peek out from the flaps and his toes are just visible at the bottom, and when he sees you he lights up and says, “Can we snuggle?”

You laugh, wondering if - despite everything else - anyone has ever made you laugh so much. “Yeah, we can snuggle.”

Harry spoons up against your back, fitting along your body like you hadn’t imagined possible. While you lie there, half curled up, you can feel his chest along your back, warm, gently moving with his breath, his hips curved against your backside and the flannel of his pajama bottoms brushing along your thighs, bare beneath your sleep shorts. His hand walks its way across your belly and around it, pulling you into him though there’s no more room between the two of you and he alternately nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and hair before you feel him start to relax into sleep. At first, you don’t think you’ll sleep yourself, just live in this moment, for all the wonderful feelings in your stomach and even the tense nerves in all your muscles. But you do sleep, eventually, and you only wake the next morning when you feel Harry moving around.

He’s rolling away and you whine, turning towards him, brain too foggy to startle awake with anxiety like you might otherwise and you can hear the blushing in his voice as he says, “Sorry, I just, um…”

You blink sleepily at him, trying to make out what he’d be embarrassed about. Maybe he’s gotta pee. That’s weird, don’t think about that. It’s not even sexy. Oh, oh wait. Your foggy brain wants to sneak a peek at him, but before you can make that decision, Harry kisses you, starts to mumble an “excuse me” against your lips.

Very suddenly you don’t want him to get away and your hands find the smooth skin of his shoulders, “Harry, I… um.”

He swallows hard, sleep blurry gaze on yours. “You don’t… are you- sure?”

“Sort of?” you mumble, a little more awake, fearing the end of this blurred edge that’s made you brave.

His lips touch yours, soft and slow and sweet, but he tells you as yours slip against his, “You have to be really sure.”

But how can you be really sure when it’s never happened before? How can you be sure except that you love him, and you want him, can feel it in your gut and clenching lower, tighter and hotter than it’s ever been, and he’ll be leaving you soon. Is it tonight or in the morning? You don’t remember. So you tell him, softly, “I’m really sure.” You don’t know if it’s completely true, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready for him to see you underneath your clothes, to find all the imperfections literally bare beneath his gaze.

Harry doesn’t seem completely sure you’re telling the truth either, but he kisses you again, harder, until you’re opening your mouth for him, pressing your hands into his lean chest and digging your fingers in as his tongue tangles up with yours. As he crawls over you, his kisses make their way down your jaw and neck, and his tongue darts out to taste your skin while his hands run up the tender skin of your thighs and over your tummy, detour underneath your shirt to touch and explore. His voice is a whisper against your neck as he tells you how silky you feel under his fingertips, like he’s never touched something so soft and you’re burning, shaking ever so slightly, goosebumps gliding along behind his touch.

You try to keep your hands on him too, wanting to remember the tanned skin under them, the way he feels, the slightly raised lines of carelessly placed tattoos and wiry hairs under his navel that he almost chuckles about when your fingertips run through them. Despite movies and books, you don’t feel like you know what you’re doing at all. But Harry doesn’t seem to care, just leaning into your touches as he sucks a wet and red spot into your neck, carefully pushing your thighs apart and pillowing himself between them. Where you could only see before, you can feel now and a shuddery breath leaves, drawing a moan out of Harry’s throat and against your skin at the sound.

His hips move against yours, slowly at first, grinding the hard length of his covered cock against your center and you bite back a whimpery sound only to let it escape into his mouth when he kisses you again, his hand winding south between you and into the waist of your shorts.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, peeking up at you.

“Just nervous,” you breathe, “i-it’s okay. Just- just touch me.”

And he does, fingers running down the soft skin of your belly and in between your thighs, and he takes an agonizingly long time exploring every inch of you, feeling out the lips and between them, nuzzling his face into your neck as you whine while his spreads you open to run along the smooth and wet inner, and when you push your hips up against his hand, seeking something, anything, he pushes a single finger inside you. It’s slender and it doesn’t hurt and you’ve only ever masturbated touching the hard nub of your clit so the sensation is beyond new and strange and wonderful and your thighs squeeze at his hips as he hovers, kissing you, moving that finger around inside, teasing with a second that creates the barest burn as he presses it into your leaking middle. You’re definitely certain you’ve never been this wet before, not even when you imagined it was him on your own. Harry fingerfucks you open, gentle and slow, and it’s the sweetest torture you’ve ever endured, especially when his thumb brushes your clit; you’d rather wait in a thousand lines than wait on this weird edge, teetering.

When he pulls his hand away, he kisses your mouth and grins when you whine, though you’re quick to gape when you find him putting his fingers in his mouth, his eyes shutting with a little groan as he sucks your generous coating off them.

“H-Harry, uh, I-” but you’ve got nothing, squirming underneath him, not quite sure what you want, but knowing you want it, all of it. All of him.

He licks his lips clean and grins down at you, eyes gone glassy and dark and you shudder a little, don’t know what to say as he hooks his hands in your shorts and the waist of your panties and tugs. You’re torn between trying to grab for covers and waiting to see what’s coming next, but when your hand inches for the bedclothes, Harry steals it, kissing into your palm and then letting his tongue slide down your wrist.

“What?” the word tumbles off your lips, your whole body hot and trembling and you forget to be nervous.

Harry peers down at you like he’s never seen something so magnificent and your chest tightens up, breath hitching in it, you don’t have enough oxygen, everything so very warm and Harry’s hands are suddenly hot on your skin. They skitter over everything, cupping your breasts and squeezing them, his mouth sucking in each nipple in turn, teasing and tasting his way underneath them, his lips wet down your tummy, pressing into squish and suckling welts, marking you up all the way down. You can’t keep up with the sensations, can barely remember what your hands are made for. Sometimes you reach for him, fingers fisting tight enough in his hair to draw out noise, but then you force them into your sheets as his mouth reaches where his fingers had been.

“Harry!” You claw at the mattress, bowing up and he practically giggles into your core, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pressing down, holding you still while he licks into you, nuzzling into your warmth and suckling at every little bit of you he can. His teeth gently graze that hard bundle of nerves just before he’s wrapped his mouth around it, tongue darting out to lick little circles around and across, tasting up into the soft skin of the hood above and you don’t even know you’re coming undone, until your toes curl so tightly they hurt and Harry’s name is a plea that fills the air in whimpers and gasps, each more desperate than the last as he continues to eat you out through your orgasm.

Still clenching and quivering with aftershock, you barely register him crawling his way back up your body, shedding his pants and underwear as he does, but then he’s brushing against your inner thigh and dragging along the sensitive center of you and you open your eyes, tears at the corners to see him hovering over you again.

“You look so good coming for me,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what to say to that, you just let him kiss you, the taste on your lips foreign but not bad. “And you taste,” he murmurs into your mouth, “like heaven.”

“H-Harry,” you plead again, when you can feel his cock once more, waiting, begging, “I don’t know… I don’t-”

He kisses your forehead this time, tenderly, “I can’t take care of myself, if you need to rest,” he says, smiling fondly down at you.

“N-No! I mean, I- I want… but I don’t know how to do-”

He doesn’t laugh, but he does roll those plush lips between his teeth to hide his amusement, until you’re pouting, your chest still heaving with the need to find more air. “You don’t have to do that, not yet. Let me do the work, okay?”

You just end up nodding your head. “O-okay.”

With careful consideration, Harry waits until you’ve relaxed again, before grasping himself, lining up with you and then gingerly pushing in. There’s a bit of a sting, he’s much bigger than even those two fingers combined inside you, but it eases as he plants tender kisses wherever he can, runs his fingertip around your clit as he gently works his way inside you, stretching open your wet and shuddering walls. You cling to him, digging your nails into his upper arm and his shoulder, your head back on the pillow, and it feels like absolutely nothing else. You don’t know how he’s so patient, waiting for you to give the go ahead, and then he does nothing short of making love to you, pushing in slow and never pulling too far out, his hips running up against yours in such a way that you can feel almost every inch of his body pressing into yours. He breathes praises into your neck and chest and hair, and you know he’s holding back, even with your head gone mostly to dizzying stars.

It’s those deft fingers working above where his cock slides into you that unravel you for a second time that you weren’t even sure could happen, and his body stutters, shaking hard with the effort not to pound his way into you when he comes moments after, spilling into you with a hot rush and several short and trembling thrusts.

For a long time after, he lays there with you, your bodies still linked together as you rest and listen to each other breathe. Harry’s lips touch the shell of your ear and he whispers, “Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” you mumble, your eyes shut but your head lolling toward his voice.

He pets sweaty hair from your forehead and you can’t bring yourself to stir other than to sigh out softly. His voice is lower, a breath, “I really, really do love you. I couldn’t wait to tell you, and now you’ve let me…. let me show you in a way as well.”

Finally you manage to open your eyes, shifting underneath him to your mingled intakes of air. “I didn’t think something like this could happen in a million years.” Not with him, not with anyone. You’re still so very young, but you’d barely seen a future that wasn’t blanketed with loneliness and cats. You don’t tell him that. “I love you too.”

His nose bumps against your jaw and your throat, nuzzling as he carefully slips out of you. On instinct you seem to roll to your side to meet his arm coming up around you, pulling you in against his chest as he sighs into the pillows. “Let me take you with me,” he says.

It sounds absolutely crazy. It sounds like a nightmare and paradise all in one. You press in closer to him.

“Okay.”


End file.
